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Flattop Jones vs. Tracer Bullet
Flattop Jones vs. Tracer Bullet is a What-If? Death Battle by I'm Lynda. It features the unlikely collision of Dick Tracey’s Flattop Jones, and Calvin and Hobbes’s Tracer Bullet. Description It was the classic era of machine gun-toting gangsters and tough-as-nails P.I.s, and often enough the two clashed...explosively! As they do in this Death Battle! Interlude Boomstick: Ah! It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was an age of Tommy guns and fedora hats, it was an age when real men smoked. Wiz: Back in the days of the film noir, gangsters battled it out in the street, while private eyes lurked in the back alleys. Boomstick: And one of the greatest of the gangsters was the carrot-topped machine gun man, Flattop Jones. Wiz: And a distant echo of the great detectives was the unflappable Tracer Bullet. Boomstick: He’s Wiz, and I’m Boomstick. Wiz: And it's our job to analyze their weapons, armor and skills to find out who would win a Death Battle. Flattop Jones Boomstick: Good old Dick Tracey (he he) faced villains every day, but one of the most notorious was the aptly-named Flattop Jones. Wiz: Floyd “Flattop” Jones was separated from his parents at a young age, and was raised in Oklahoma by his aunt and abusive uncle. Boomstick: He had a sharp mind, and he learned that violence is the path to getting anything and everything you want. He was determined to seize the world, and wring from it everything he could. Wiz: And, that led him to a life of crime. Boomstick: He started with robbing stores and whatnot, but he quickly graduated to robbing banks...where the REAL money is. Wiz: Which brought him to the attention of the Federal authorities. A number of agents were sent after Flattop, who dealt with them so mercilessly that it was later called the “Kansas City Massacre.” Boomstick: And when the bad guys decided to put an end to police detective Dick Tracey (he he) once and for all, they called in Flattop Jones and his gang. Wiz: And, though Flattop ultimately failed in his attempt, he made a big impression, and was remembered for a long time as one of the greatest of the Dick Tracey villains. Boomstick: Now, Flattop Jones was actually based on the real-life killer, Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd. Wiz: Flattop and Pretty Boy’s biography read pretty much the same, right down to Floyd having his own Kansas City Massacre. Boomstick: Floyd was known to have used a number of weapons during the course of his career, but he is most remembered for using a Colt Model 1911, a semi-automatic with a 7-round clip, and a Thompson M1928 sub-machine gun, which could be fitted with either 30-round clip or the more famous 50-round drum-magazine. Wiz: But, while Pretty Boy Floyd was known as something of a Robin Hood, giving money from his bank robberies to the poor, Flattop Jones is in it for only himself and the loot he can make. Tracer Bullet Boomstick: And then came Bullet…Tracer Bullet. Wiz: Tracer Bullet is an imaginary private investigator who lives in the dangerous world Calvin’s imagination. Boomstick: You know, Calvin, the little kid who carries around a stuffed tiger called, Hobbes? Wiz: That’s right, the world of Calvin’s imagination is a dangerous place, filled with monsters and aliens, and one very cynical P.I. named Tracer Bullet. Boomstick: Tracer Bullet is always armed with his trusty firearm and his even trustier hip flask, both of which see him through any adventure that head his way. Wiz: He’s a true creation of the film noir, complete with all the lingo and ruminations. Boomstick: But don’t take him lightly, he can take a beating, and he’s always ready to hand out his own form of retaliation. Wiz: Alright the combatants are set; let’s end this debate once and for all. Boomstick: That’s right, It’s time for a DEATH BATTLE! DEATH BATTLE! It was a dark and rainy night, well after midnight. The wind blew a mist off of the Lake, leaving drips of water falling from my fedora. My name is Bullet, Tracer Bullet, and I'm a P.I. I knew that the dame was trouble when she walked into my office. She looked just like the girl next door. The girl next door that is, if you live in the Gold Coast, next to a millionaire whose tastes run to bleach-bottle blondes who love diamonds and furs. But, she dropped five Ben Franklins on my desk, and their chorus of voices was pure music to my ears. The collection agency was planning on paying me a visit, and these collectors like breaking the kneecaps of those unable to pay. So, she had my undivided attention. She cried me a story about an innocent young girl caught in the webs of a vile blackmailer. My mind told me that the dish was feeding me a pound and a half of grade-A Kosher baloney, but the song that the Franklin brothers were crooning drowned out anything my common sense had to say. Anyway, all I had to do was take an envelope to the blackmailer, he would give me a package, and I would return it to Blondie. What could go wrong? Well, here I was walking through the mist, looking for trouble, and it was sure to find me. Actually, the first trouble to find me was in the shape of a big Mick flatfoot, who was strolling up the street, spinning his billy club. I looked down at the pavement, and moved to slip past him unnoticed. "Where is it you’re goin this time of night?" he asked. I tried to pretend I didn't hear him and walk past, but he was having none of it. He put his club up to jab me in the shoulder, and when it made contact with my heater, it make a telltale click. The cop reared back, and raised his club to bat my skull into next Tuesday. I put my hands up and told him, "It's OK, I'm a P.I., Tracer Bullet." The copper peered close at my face, and lowered the billy. "Wehl," he said, "no one in thair right mihnd would say that who wasn't." He gave me the evil eye. "Listen Bullit, make truble on my beat, and I'll teach you the same lesson that Brian Boru taught Vikings at Clontarf. Understahnd me?" I nodded. "I understand you." I told him. The bull nodded, and walked away, swinging his billy on its thong, and whistling a merry tune. I walked on through the gloom, until I arrived at the gate of the defunct Chicago Barrel and Crate Company. I pushed the gate open and slipped in, my eyes searching the yard for my contact. True to the place's name. the whole place was filled with old barrel and old crates. Suddenly, a light flared across the yard, as my contact lit a cigarette. I strolled over to him, my eyes peeled for the presence of any hidden goons. "You Bullet?" he asked me. I looked him up and down. He was well dressed, and had a head so flat you could use it as a ruler. I knew him by reputation; he was Flattop Jones, a trigger man of no small reputation. "I'm Bullet. You got a package for me?" "Where's the envelope?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with something I didn't like. I pulled the envelope from my inside pocket, and tossed it at his feet. He bent down, laid his violin case on the ground, and flipped back the lid. Quick as a snake, I drew my .45 from its shoulder holster, and pointed it just beneath the flattop. It's amazing how thoroughly looking down the barrel of a gun will focus your attention. "Think really carefully about your next move," I told him, "because it could very well be your last." "My, my," he smiled up at me. "You are a jumpy little bird, ain't ya?" He took something out of the violin case, and tossed it to at my feet. "This is what I was supposed to give you," he smirked. I looked down and saw a pineapple - the green kind that the soldier-boys are really fond of. FIGHT! I shouted an expletive, and dove behind some barrels just before the grenade let rip, showering me with dirt. The flattop stood up brandishing a Chicago typewriter, and began typing out a love letter in my direction. I rolled to the side and crawled as fast as I could to the left. The fireworks stopped, so I jumped up and squeezed off three rounds towards where the chopper man was before dropping back down. Hot lead filled the air, and I crawled like my life depended on it...which it did. Everything went silent again. Was the triggerman out of ammo? If there's someone out there who can count the number of rounds fired at him by a Tommy gun, I wouldn't want to meet that chump. I peeped up over the barrels, and looked for the man with the chopper. When I found him, I sent two slugs whizzing his way, and ducked down. Again, bullets seemed to fill the air. The bird had brought more than one drum, and he was prepared to spend the lot to punch my ticket. I lifted my roscoe above the barrels that were seeming more and more like home sweet home, and fired twice more towards the bird. The slide was back showing that I emptied my clip, so I shot it out, and drove a new one home. Bullets bounced off of and through my barrels, showing that Mr. Thompson had shifted position. Well, Momma Bullet raised no fools, and no sitting ducks. So, I got down on all fours and scuttled to the left, again. Silence reigned in the yard, as me and the torpedo hunted each other among the jetsam and flotsam of industry. Just where were the police? It's truly said that there's never a cop around when you need one. But, just drop a used napkin in front of a donut shop, and you'll be buried in coats of blue. I tossed a rock back towards where I had been lurking. Instantly the gat strafed the area, showing me where the gunner stood. I circled to the left, and peered up a gap in the debris. Yep, there he was, large as life, looking back towards where I wanted him to think that I was. I had the bird behind the eight ball all right. I got down on my belly, and crawled towards my target. My dear old sarge would have wept real tears to see me practicing what he had preached. I kept my butt down and my gun up, and watched for my opportunity. The D.A. would not be happy to find yet another stiff with my fingerprints on it, so I had to find a way to wing this bird, good and proper. I peeped around a barrel, and there he was, ripe for the picking. I squinted down the sights of my heater and zeroed in on his left shoulder. I squeezed the trigger with the gentleness of a lover, and felt the gun jump in my hand. The triggerman cried out, and fell back, the Tommy in his right hand shot up, spraying slugs into the night sky. God himself musta ducked for cover. I had him, alive and all ready to be wrapped up and handed to the coppers with bow on top. But, the stooge kept reeling, until he fell over a barrel and disappeared from sight. I heard a scream disappearing into the night. Oh yeah, I forgot that the old Chicago Barrel and Crate stood on the edge of the cliff. That was a loud smash, and what felt like an endless tinkle of broken glass. Oh yeah, that's right. The Chicago Blown Glass Company kept their trash heap out back, up against the cliff. I jumped up, and ran to the edge of the cliff. I looked down. Well, there was no gift wrapping this package. The coroner wouldn't need to send a box for this corpse. Nope, he could just come with a sponge and an accordion box. Yeesh! K.O.! I pulled out my hip flask, toasted the wreckage down below, and took a good, long pull. Thank God Prohibition was over. I pocketed the flask, and turned for home. Dames, there wasn't one of them that wasn't trouble. And as for blondes, I won't ever look at another. Well...that is…until another one walks into my office. Hey, $50 a day plus expenses can buy a lot of wine, women and song, and like I said, Momma Bullet raised no fools. Conclusion Boomstick: Now, that’s a tough way to go – shot, dropped and sliced into cold cuts. Wiz: While Flattop Jones was a seasoned killer, with numerous notches on his gun, he had a weakness. He tended to underestimate the ability of his opponents. Boomstick: That’s right, when he got the drop on Dick Tracey, and was ready to murder him, he put it off, seeking to extort more money from his employers. He put it off so many times, that Tracey was able to get word out, which brought his police friends to the party. Wiz: And even when he did go to kill Tracey, he moved in so close that Tracey was able to wrestle the gun away from him, and kill two of Flattop’s goons. Boomstick: Bullet, on the other hand, is too cynical to give an opponent an “even break.” He’s going to move fast and hit hard, and let the chips fall where they may. Wiz: The winner is Tracer Bullet! Next Time Trivia * This is the second Death Battle! completed by I'm Lynda. * It is not stated where the Tracer Bullet adventures take place, except for a reference to “49th Street.” Now, that is probably 49th Street in Manhattan, but I decided to place the action in Chicago. You know, the home of the Tommy gun and the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre? “He pulls a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue! That's the Chicago way!” * Nope, there is no cliff in Chicago. Call it poetic license. * I don’t know if there is or ever was a Chicago Barrel and Crate Company or a Chicago Blown Glass Company, they were merely invented to help the plot.Category:What-If? Death Battles Category:Death Battles by 2 Different Companies Category:Death Battles by 2 Different Series Category:I'm Lynda Category:Completed What-If? Death Battles